First and Last
by dustflare
Summary: Cato/Clove from Clove's POV.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: OH MY GOD. It has literally been 430 days since I've updated. I'm super super super sorry gjvogerhg4aeo, I never thought it would be this long! I'll try to update faster from now on but idk. Also, this chapter is somewhat new. Like, better-new. I was like twelve or something when I first started writing this story, so obviously I wasn't the best writer back then, but I've gotten better. I've only replaced the first chapter so far, but I'll be doing the same for the rest of the chapters as well. The storyline will basically be the same, but I'm gonna add more detail and that shit, and there'll be more about her life before the Games. So, with that said, you're free to start reading c:**

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><p>I settle down into the flowers, cross my arms behind my head, and gaze up at the sunlit sky. Pink, blue, and green decorate the area and easily lift my dampened spirits. A cool breeze tugs at my long brown hair, pulling strands into my face and into the sharp grass. Autumn, having just begun to replace the sublime summer weather, is just around the corner. I suppose I look forward to it, since it marks the beginning of my second year at the Academy.<p>

About ten yards to my left is a dense forest. Through blurry eyes I can barely make out the crisp brown leaves and pine straw that litter the ground. This is one of my rare moments of peace; I open my mouth and drink in the warm air, basking in the sun's soft rays and forgetting all of my troubles.

After reveling in those few minutes of pleasure, I hear a soft thud beside me, and immediately I'm sitting up again. Snickers erupt from the left side of the meadow. I turn my head sharply to see that a bright, glistening silver sword has plunged into the soft earth, crushing a small part of the picturesque flowerbed. Typically I would have been more aware of my surroundings, but I thought that I could finally let down my guard for just a few minutes. Looks like I thought wrong.

It is not until I have grabbed the worn-out sword handle with both hands and yanked it out of the ground that I notice a few boys about my age sneering at me from the edge of the forest. I should have known this was too good to be true. The peace never lasts for long.

I stamp over to them, sword in hand, and put my hands on my hips. "Just what do you think you're doing?" I spit. My arms shake in anger. "Killing innocent ten-year-old girls?"

One of the boys, the largest, bulkiest of the three, steps forward. With an annoying,fake-friendly smile, he says, "We were only having fun, doll. Besides, you're not dead, are you?"

"No, of course I'm not dead!" I snap. "But I could be, because of your awful sword skills." I wave my hands above my head and glower at these three idiots to get my point across. It doesn't seem to be helping.

"Whatever." The boy folds his arms across his chest, towering menacingly above me. At 4'5" I'm probably a whole foot shorter than him, and he appears quite belligerent. Giant or not, however, I refuse to bow down to him. "I don't really care if you're alive or not. You're no use to me."

"Don't be so sure." In one quick motion, I raise the sword above my head with both hands, glare at the boy, and pull my weapon down, striking his arm. Although it induces only a shallow cut - he moved just in time - my bravery must have impressed him; the unexpected act leaves him mystified, gaping after me as I march back onto field; I suppose he is the type that no one dares to stand up to, seeing as he reacted with such shock.

I whirl around to face him again. "Don't stare," I snap. "It's really rude, in case you didn't know, you stupid freak." Once more I stalk off in the other direction, secretly grinning at the irony of my comment. If he can be mean, socanI.

"Wait!" the boy gasps. His companions have left, leaving the two of us alone in the middle of the field. "What's your name?"

I spin around, thrusting my face up to his. "Clove," I breathe coldly, sticking out my arm in an almost robotic manner. "And you are?"

"The name's Cato," he replies contemptuously as he roughly shakes my hand, head high. I can't restrain the shaded half-smile that forces my lips to twitch up at my realisation: Cato is not going to go easy on me. In his eyes I am one of the boys and definitely a force to be reckoned with. Could he have known this when he threw that sword?

"Well, Cato, I think we should be friends," I say matter-of-factly. My gaze flickers across his body as I take in his appearance: broad, ox-like shoulders, rumpled dirty-blonde hair, dark blue eyes, sinewy limbs. He's lean, but I can tell he has a lot of power stored inside him, waiting to be unleashed.

Cato shrugs. "Alright. But you should know that I'm deadly. I could kill you right now if I wanted to."

I smirk. "Yeah, if you wanted to. But I know you don't, so I won't bother worrying about that."

He grunts and reluctantly asks, "You want to train for the Games with me? We could be even stronger if we worked together."

"Oh, Cato. That's what I'm made for." I laugh humourlessly as I turn away. "I was born a victor," I whisper.

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><p>(a few years later)<p>

My knife sails through the air and strikes the tree, right on target. I never miss. That's what makes me special, what makes me dangerous and apprehended. Nearly anyone that has seen me throw a knife - and anyone that has heard of my acute talent - knows better than to mess with me. But sometimes an idiot comes along and decides to mix things up a bit. They don't bother me; everyone needs a little turmoil thrown into their day. It makes for great entertainment, if I do say so myself.

"Bravo," Cato deadpans. Excitement isn't exactly Cato's thing. He saves it for special occasions, such aswhen he kills something (which is a surprisingly uncommon event) or receives a high score for his sword skills during training sessions and evaluations.

After a few more minutes of practicing with my knives, I collect them from various fake tree trunks and dummies and drop them onto a table. They clatter loudly as they bump against each other. I make my way back over to one of the dummies and stand still for a moment.

I bring my hands up, bend my knees slightly, and aim. Squinting one eye, my tightly clenched fists rise to about the level of my nose. Then I punch. A blatant booming noise echoes around the room as my knuckles, raw and red, meet their target. I continue pounding my fists onto the dummy, kicking it and stabbing it with a knife I found in my pocket.

"That's enough, Clove!" The sound of an annoying, choleric voice instantly brings me to my feet. My hands drop swiftly to my sides and I snap my head around to face the speaker. "You'll burn all your energy, and we still have several hours to go," warns Acacia, my trainer.

"Fine," I mutter, looking down at my feet. My orange T-shirt is covered in dust. Blood oozes out of a cut on my knee and trickles down my leg. Wiping it with my hands will only make my leg dirtier, so I just stand there awkwardly with my arms swaying at my sides, not knowing where to put them.

Acacia nods and continues to spew out information. "In five minutes, you'll need to be ready for the sword show. After that you'll be sent back here instead of going to your Panem history class, due to the unusual schedule and the absence of your teacher. Understood?"

"Of course." I barely contain the grin that threatens to burst across my face. Everyone has been looking forward to the sword show since last summer. Each year, two boys and two girls from the group of eighteen-year-olds are voted into a contest in which you fight to the death. It's sort of like the Hunger Games, though there are only four contestants, the "arena" is one of the training rooms, and only two players fight at a time. Girls against girls, boys against boys, until the third round, where the two winners are put against each other.

Since I'm only eleven, this will be the first year I get to watch. Cato, being twelve, has witnessed only one of these mini-Games, and all the praise he and many other District Two residents have put out are really inducing my excitement.

As quickly as possible, I shove open the heavy bathroom door and fumble to change into a knee-length black dress with red swirls spiraling up the sides. I admire myself in the mirror above the sinks, twirling around and redoing my dark ponytail. This is my first experience with real-life fighting – besides the Hunger Games – so I have to look pretty.

Little Miss Perfect strides into the bathroom just as I'm about to leave. Without acknowledging my unmistakable presence, she pats her hair down and reapplies her lip gloss. Blonde curls cascade in loose ringlets over her high-held shoulders.

Finn, aka Little Miss Perfect, is my cousin Orove's new girlfriend, and she hates me nearly as much as I hate her. Perfect blonde hair, perfect crystal eyes, all A's in every class except Weapons (our training class). She just can't bear to get her to get her pretty little hands dirty. Obviously, she only signed up for Weapons to be with Orove and her best friend.

My hand twitches. I would stab her if it weren't for the reputation I'm required to retain. Murder under the age of sixteen is frowned upon, so killing her would only lessen my chances of getting into the advanced training class when I'm older. I settle for slapping her as I walk past.

Hastily exiting the restroom, I laugh quietly to myself. However, my laughter is cut short when my face collides with a wall. A soft, moving wall – Cato.

"Finally," he mumbles, stepping away. "I was beginning to think you had decided to live in there and never come out." I roll my eyes. Cato dives right into diva mode whenever he's forced to wear a suit, and he's already impatient enough as it is, without the added nuisance. "We need to hurry so we'll get good seats."

He takes off at an awkward half-run, half-walk, hands swinging at his sides, and I hurry to catch up.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Sorry it took me so long to update :c I kept getting sidetracked, and I've been really busy with school. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it(:**

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><p>I stand in the crowd of sixteen-year-olds, waiting for a name to be announced into the microphone. Whoever was picked would probably be going to their death.<p>

"Clove Sharster!" Zadia announces dully into the microphone.

I have to say, I'm a bit surprised, but I confidently shove my way through the crowd, head high, and walk lightly up the stairs. My viperous attitude causes most people to fear me. Only my mother, sisters, and Cato have no reason to flinch in my presence.

"And now we have…"

Dark, beautiful Zadia is interrupted by a dauntless voice from the seventeen-year-old section. "I volunteer!"

At first I'm hoping that this cocky tribute is talented. Until I realize the voice belongs to Cato. When the thought has finally been processed in my mind, my legs feel as if they are going to give way beneath me. But no, I'm supposed to be strong. This is what everyone expects from me, and I need all the sponsors I can get.

I shoot Cato a sideways glare, but he's too busy smirking at the hushed crowd. I must be like him. Defiant, vigorous, but in a shadow-like manner. And so I stand completely still. My hands fall limply to my sides, my legs straighten out, and my gaze darts intrepidly from one person to another.

A little girl, about the age of eleven, points straight at me. She whispers something into an older girl's ear and smiles sweetly.

Oh, I remember the days when I was innocent and young. My older brother, Vayze, volunteered for a puny twelve-year-old when he was eighteen. At the time, I was eight, and I honestly had no idea what the Reaping Day was all about. I thought of the Hunger Games as some silly children's game. But the Capitol took my brother away from me, leaving me devastated. That was when I understood how cruel the leaders of Panem truly were, and when I started my training.

Vayze actually ended up as the 67th Hunger Games victor. Once he arrived back here in District 2, he began teaching me simple battle strategies and knife techniques. I had always been fascinated with knives back then, and still am because of my brother. He helped me succeed in what I was passionate about.

Shortly after my second year of training, when I turned ten, Vayze disappeared. Since then, we've had no news of him, and the Capitol insists that he is dead. Though everyone tells me otherwise, I believe that somewhere, somehow, he is still alive and perfectly content. This answer satisfies me. On most nights, memories of me and Vayze sending knives sailing through the air with a subtle flick of the wrist would alleviate me and chase away my nightmares. But now, I no longer feel his soothing presence after I wake up screaming and crying like a child. No one arrives at my side within seconds to console me, to tell me that everything will be okay.

Putting all that aside for the time being, I return to the present. I'm standing stiffly beside Cato in front of a silent crowd consisting of citizens of all ages while Zadia looks around awkwardly.

Cato has changed so much over the years. When we first met, we were both a bit scrawny, though he still had those ox-like shoulders and was quite intimidating. The two of us had been slightly underfed, as we were so young not yet pampered and spoiled by the Capitol. Now, Cato looks even overfed, but I know that about half of his weight is muscle. His sandy blonde hair has darkened and is a little spikier than I remember, but what really shocks me is his eyes. Beautiful, dark blue, and bright.

"Clove!" Cato snaps, pulling me out of my thoughts once again. I shake my head as we're escorted off the stage and into the Justice Building by Zadia.

For a few seconds, I snuggle into the plush, bright red velvet seat. My eyelids feel heavier and heavier each moment and are beginning to droop. I neatly tuck in my legs and lock my arms around them. Just as my head sinks down and I'm about to fall asleep, I hear a knock on the door.

"Come in," I mutter wanly. I pull my head up and languidly blink open my eyes to see a very blurry girl standing in front of me. "Fenter?"

Fenter nods and smiles dolefully at me. This isn't her usual convivial, flashy smile I see whenever she laughs. Usually, she's extremely peppy and sanguine. But now, as she grabs my hand, a tear rolls down her face.

"I'm sorry, Clove," she murmurs softly. "Win for me, okay?"

Though Fenter is my sister, we have nothing in common. She's nineteen, about to be twenty, and only lives with the rest of us – my mother, sister, and me – half of the time. Whenever she's gone, she's with her boyfriend or Feather, a girl from District 11. Even our appearance denies our relationship; my hair, unlike hers, is mid-length, curly, blonde, and a bit unkempt. My skin is dull and scratched up from fights at school and training sessions with Cato, and my fashion choice is horrible. Fenter, on the other hand, is beautiful with her long, silky, chocolate-brown hair and incandescent hazel eyes. Her legs seem perfect and she knows exactly what to wear to make boys want her and girls want to be her. Anything she wears is flattering to her body.

"Of course I'll win, Fenter," I say bitterly. She tries to smile again, and although she fails, it lightens me up a little. "I'll win for you and Mother and Brayen and-"

Fenter silences me by placing a finger over my mouth. "Hush, Clove. I know." After giving me a tiny hug, she turns and walks silently out the door. She is replaced by Brayen and Fennel.

Brayen, my six-year-old look-alike, rushes over and jumps on me. I'm used to this, and I was expecting it, so I grab her in my arms and spin her around.

"Please don't leave, Clove." Brayen's gray eyes water as she whimpers and stares up at me. Her bottom lip quivers, and I almost feel sympathetic. Almost.

"I'll be alright. Before you know it, I'll be back home. Now, you be a good girl for Mother and Fenter and I'll bring you back a present," I whisper. Fennel, Brayen's friend from school, stumbles over to us and sits down at my feet.

"Bye, Clove," he says chastely in a high-pitched voice. "Bring me a present, too!"

"I will, don't you worry."

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><p>I shove the key into the lock and twist in random directions, half asleep. Finally, after several pathetic attempts and fails, the door squeaks slightly ajar. My fist slams into it, sending it crashing into the wall with a <em>bang<em> that echoes all the way down the corridor. Luckily, it doesn't crack, like most doors do when I slam them.

After I step into the room, I take a look around. Plush carpet, a velvet rug below the bed, dark blue wallpaper. Actually, the walls aren't completely blue. Silver stars have been painted onto a plain light brown trim, and all four have been coated with glitter. Oh, and the bed! It's a bit high off the ground, but it will do. I absolutely love the ebony sheets spread flawlessly across the top, with silver stars – to match the wall – on the headboard. Long black poles reach from bottom to top, each connecting a corner of a beautiful black canopy tinged slightly with blood red streaks.

Without bothering to take a shower, I climb into bed, flip off the lights, and think for a few moments. I see Fenter's impotent eyes staring desperately into mine as I'm forced to leave her and board the train, Brayen clutching her hand, Vayze's knives cleaving their targets. Right before I drift into sleep, an image of Cato when we first met stands out in my mind. Even back then, he was brutal and ruthless. And I'm quite certain he'll always be that way.

"Wake up!" Talia snaps irritably. She shakes my shoulders irascibly and literally pulls me out of bed. I stumble around for a moment, rubbing my eyes and clearing my bleary vision.

"Breakfast?" I ask, yawning.

"Yes, breakfast will be ready soon. Take a shower and get dressed first, though. Look nice, Clove." Talia whips around and stalks out of the room, muttering something about a "stupid girl" under her breath.

I roll my eyes and find the bathroom. It's larger than I expected, with golden wallpaper and white polka dots. Below me is a fuzzy, bright yellow mat covering a few of the diamond-shaped tiles beside the shower. An oval mirror, framed with golden and white, has been carefully hung above the sink, straight across from me.

After grabbing a towel and setting it by the sink, I step into the shower. Scalding hot water sprays down, soaking my lush blonde hair and streaming down my back. Only a few seconds in the torrid shower turns my legs and feet red, so I adjust the temperature. Standing in an irriguous bathroom with my eyes closed is, I must admit, emphatically relaxing. Back in District 2, the water – or the weather, for that matter – is nothing like this. When I take showers at home, the water is freezing, and I'm forced to huddle up by the fireplace to stay warm. Even the weather is bleak and algid.

Until I was seven, Fenter would wrap me up in two sweaters, slap a toboggan on my head, struggle to pull socks and gloves over my hands and feet, and send me outside. I stayed warm, of course, but other kids made fun of me and called me names. Actually, that was the reason I started early training; I was so sick of being picked on that I wanted to kill them all. Unfortunately, that opportunity never came. As soon as I began my training and beat up a couple of kids, the others kept their distance. Though, it's nice to know I intimidated them.

Thankfully, I no longer wear those foolish outfits. Fenter finally decided I was old enough to go outside in just a shirt and pants, no hats or gloves or socks. Only shoes to cover my feet and normal clothes to cover my body.

Stepping out of the shower is a tough decision, but Talia will go berserk if I'm late for breakfast. I dry myself off and slip on a simple black t-shirt and light gray sweatpants. Tilt my head sideways and brush one side, then tilt it the other way and brush that side. Gulp down a glass of water. Slather myself with lotion as Talia instructed on the train.

Finally, I'm ready for breakfast. The shower has certainly woken me up, but there are still dark rings under my eyes from lack of sleep. My eyelids have stopped drooping, though, and at least now I can coerce a smile onto my lips without it seeming too incompetent or forced.

In the dining room, I find a plate already set out for me and a ravenous Cato already scarfing down food. I stride confidently over and slip in next to him, staring in disgust at his lack of manners – not that mine are too much better – before digging in.

Not knowing what to eat first, I decide to try the bacon. It's crunchy, like normal, but there's something else. I can't seem to figure out what's so different about it, so I shrug it off and decide it's a bit crispier than usual. Either way, it's delicious, and the hot chocolate is simply ambrosial.

After I've cleared the plate of bacon, slurped down my hot chocolate, and eaten half of a cinnamon roll, I stand up abruptly. A queasy sensation creeps into my stomach. I take off down the hall, barely hearing my chair clatter to the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cato grab a handful of bacon and rush after me. Frantically, I push the up arrow on the elevator, and slam my fist against the number two. As the doors slide open, I cover my mouth with both hands. I barely make it to my bathroom before I throw up my breakfast into the sink.

Clasping my stomach with my hands, I sink down against the wall and bury my head between my knees. The awful feeling still hasn't left, and now there's a vulgar aftertaste in my mouth. I lick my lips in attempt to rid them from the taste, but it only worsens. My head is pounding, heart racing, as I analyze the situation.

Then I remember seeing Talia's devious grin as I entered the dining room and the realization causes me to leap to my feet.

Talia put food poisoning in my breakfast. I know she's not so fond of me, but I never guessed that she would do this. I remember her insidious smile as she watched me devouring my food and know this must be the cause of my ailment.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Oh my gosh you guys. I'm so sorry! I haven't updated in forever! Really, I have no excuse, but... let me explain. I've been roleplaying (Panem October's amazing) and writing bits of my other stories here and there. So, um... so sorry!**

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><p>Instantly, enmity boils up inside of me, replacing the caustic pain. I spin around and kick the cabinets below the sink with as much coercion as I can muster. Then, after I've felt enough of the wretched agony, I decide to take out my anger in an incommensurable method. I allow my fist to slam into the mirror to completely shatter it, and rough shards spray into my face and fly down my body. Several pieces dig into my hands as I collapse to the floor again.<p>

Tears escape my eyes as I realize what I've done. All my life, I've let my anger get the best of me, even in a frivolous situation like this. Something that was completely minor will turn into something crucial.

So here I sit, finally giving in to depression and letting the sobs wrack my body. For half an hour I lay here in the remains of the mirror. Sniffling, I glance down at my hands, squalid and hematic, realizing how badly I hurt myself. The palms of my hands have been deeply cut, though no shards of glass have been wedged inside them.

However, my arms and legs have not been wounded as badly as my hands. Scratches can be found here and there, but there are no critical injuries. Only slight lacerations.

I cross my legs, sniffle again, and bend over to look at my reflection. Although the mirror is shattered, I can still make myself out. Face caked with dry blood, expression wary. Dark rings below my eyes, still discernable through the mess. Distinct blemishes show on my sallow cheeks.

Right after I've finished drying my eyes, Cato emerges from the doorway. I expect his expression to display shock, maybe even anger, but to my surprise, he appears completely calm.

Cato takes in the scene and raises an eyebrow. He looks me up and down, which doesn't take long because I'm still sitting in the remains of the mirror. "So, what happened back there?" he asks casually, putting one foot on the wall and leaning back, smirking. "You seemed pretty pissed, so Zadia asked me to check on you."

Slowly, I rise to my feet and wipe my hands on my filthy, soused t-shirt. "Talia put food poisoning in my breakfast." When I speak, my voice is raspy, and the sentence didn't come out the way I wanted. I clear my throat. "She food-poisoned my breakfast," I repeat, kicking a few large pieces of glass towards Cato.

"Whatever," he says with a shrug. "I don't really care, honestly. I'm only obeying orders. I want to be an angel, like you."

Now I completely lose it. "Shut up, Cato! Just shut up!" I bring my fist up from my waist and punch his jaw as hard as I can. I hear a reticent crack, but Cato only smirks again and rubs the bruise with his hand.

"What was that for?" I can tell Cato's about to lose it, too, but Talia interrupts our quarrel with a snarl and grabs my rival's shirt collar. He squirms in her grasp, but he's obviously not giving much effort. I'm sure that he could easily knock her out and detach himself from her grasp if he cared.

"Talia," I whisper discreetly. My voice doesn't crack at all. "Why did you put food poisoning in my breakfast?"

"Sweet, dear Clove," she mutters in my ear. Her hot breath tickles against my skin, and I wish so badly to slit her throat. "I did it because… oh, there are so many reasons. Let's start with your sister, shall we? Well, your sister, Fenter, she ran off with my boyfriend. Stole her from me and watched exultantly as Lynx – that was my boyfriend – beat me, abused me, just like your mother did to you."

"Don't you dare talk about my mother," I growl. I would slap her across the face, but I want to hear the rest of her story before her jaw is broken.

"We both know it's true," Talia whispers mockingly. "Your mother despised you. She never wanted you, and neither did your father. You were and are an accident."

My green eyes narrow to slits, and I bring up my fist, preparing to defend myself. I want so badly to forget about my parents, to kill my father, to burn my memories of them to ashes.

_I __wince __as __my __mother, __only __twenty-five, __strikes __my __face __with __her calloused __hand. __Blood __is __already __dripping __down __my __face, __pouring __from __my __nose, __staining __the __light __blue __rug __below __me. __Pain __seers __in __my __left __arm __as __she __captures __me __in __her __grasp, __her __gri__p __tightening __unti__l __my __arm __is completely __white. __Again, __her __fist __s__macks __my __jaw._

_Head pounding, I try to defend myself. But this only makes her angrier. She kicks my stomach with such a force that it knocks the breath out of me. I keel over, hands grasping the spot in which she kicked me, and gag. In two days, I've eaten nothing but a loaf of bread, while my mother devours large, rich meals._

How I hate my mother. Even after her death, all I feel for her is deep animosity. And I killed her myself.

"_Stop, __please!__" __I __screech, __flinching __away. __My __entire __face __is __stinging __from __my __mother__'__s __strikes. __As __I __scramble __backward __across __the __hardwood __floor, __I __whimper __and __blindly __fumble __around __for __my __knife. __Shutting __my __eyes __to __block __out __the __pain __and __torture __does __not __help._

"_You stupid girl!" my mother vociferates. "I should not have let you live. I was doing a favor, feeding you and allowing you a place in my home. The only reason I even kept you was because I had nothing left of your father to hold on to." Her voice cracks at the last few words and tears spring to her eyes. "But now, I don't want anything to hold on to."_

_I have to pause and contemplate the last sentence, allowing my mind to have time to process my mother's words. And then I realize she means to kill me._

_Unexpectedly, my hand finds my knife, and I grasp it firmly, clenching my fists in enmity. My mother only stands there with a smug grin spread across her pale, ghostly face. Raising my hand, still gripping it tightly, I plunge my knife into her throat._

_That's all it takes for her to languish. She collapses to the floor, pools of claret cascading from the gash. I grin corruptly as my mother laments, coughing up blood. Her hands enclose around her throat while I tower above her, watching her choke to death from a slit of the knife. Oh, the luxary..._

"Only pathetic Fenter loves you," Talia sneers. "And I think I'll take care of that. Do you need any more reasons as to why I _loathe_ you?" The corners of her lips are pulled back in a snarl, reminding me of a wolf. "I could go on and on."

Surprisingly, I only say, "No, Talia," smooth down my hair, and walk away, not looking back. Even I wasn't expecting my own reaction. When it happened, I longed to kill her like I did my mother, to watch her suffer. Of course, I know my mother didn't love me; Talia didn't have to repeat it. But Brayen? No, I'm sure that Brayen loves me. Besides, I doubt Talia even knows her.

The more I ruminate about my family, the more I miss them. I miss Fenter, with her aphotic brown eyes and incandescent smile; Brayen's pertinacious but fervent attitude and her smoky gray eyes that mirror my own. Even Fennel, Brayen's school friend that follows her around like a lost puppy, enters my thoughts, and I realize I miss him too. But soon enough, I'll be back home.

Glimmer, the District 1 girl, marches right into my room, holding a dark green bottle. "Hi, Clove. I only came to visit for a few minutes. You know, since we'll be allies soon," she says, smiling broadly. "I brought you something."

I snatch the bottle from her grasp and choke down its contents. Liquor. For a moment, my throat burns. I cough and continue drinking.

Glimmer smirks. "I see you like it." I nod. "Well, in that case, you can have more." She unzips a leathery black bag, and I hear bottles clanking together.

Tossing the empty one on the floor, I grab another, then another. It turns out they're pretty good, and they really help calm me down. I've been worried about going into the arena with Cato, even though I do love to kill. My desire to kill only goes so far, though. True, I've been brought up to slaughter mercilessly, but I save the torture for those I hate. But I don't hate Cato. He's special to me, something like a brother. Not entirely a brother, actually, because I hate my brothers (I have a lot of siblings). They drink, party, and kill.

During the next hour, the whole floor begins to fill up with bottles, lamps, clothes, and other items. All I have on is some shorts and a camisole, instead of the usual tights, baggy pants, sweatshirt, and t-shirt. Under the bed is my light gray "District 2" sweatshirt and a pair of socks. T-shirts and blankets are strewn out in the general entrance area and by the bathroom door. Shattered bottles are stashed inside the closet, and shards of the mirror I broke during my tantrum still cover the floor. Water seeps out from under the door.

A few minutes ago, Glimmer and I had a water fight with the shower hose. I sprayed it all over the bathroom, splotching the walls and soaking both of us. I'm dripping wet from head to toe

All of a sudden, just as the bottle I sent sailing through the air smashes into the wall and shatters, the door bangs open, revealing Cato.

"What," snaps Cato, "are you two doing?" His dark blue eyes are stretched wide in astonishment. "Clove, I thought you were boring!" he exclaims.

I sniff. "Not anymore." My voice is hoarse and the words are slurred. "Want to join us?" I ask, motioning towards a wild-eyed Glimmer.

There's a short pause, then, "Sure, why not?"

For the next few hours, we continue throwing bottles and lamps at the wall, hooting and slapping each other's backs as they shatter. Cato slides across the bathroom floor, hollering and cursing as he lies sprawled out in the glass shards. I lug him around the room on a towel, occasionally giggling as I allow him to bump into furniture.

At some point, I begin slip into unconsciousness. Cato tackles me and I feel glass dig into my leg, and I can vaguely see Glimmer banging on the door with her fist as Enobaria and Johanna screech insults at her from outside the room.

"Get up!" someone hisses into my ear. The person prods my shoulder roughly with her foot. I blink open my eyes and glare up at Enobaria's blurry, wavering figure.

"What happened?" I ask as my vision clears. I don't notice that Johanna, Enobaria's friend from District 7, is standing beside me until she grips my hands and pulls me up.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," says Enobaria dryly. "What were you and Cato and Glimmer doing?"

"We…" I rub my left temple. "We were… I don't know," I mutter. "Ask Glimmer." I think I'm still half unconscious, because the world seems to slip away every few seconds as I fight to keep my eyes open.

"Ask me what?" Glimmer asks, strutting into the room. I groan at her six-inch, golden high heels and sparkling yellow shirt lined with sequins. Her light blue jeans are so tight that I wonder if it's cutting off her blood circulation.

"What happened to Clove?" asks Johanna as she rises to her feet and squarely faces Glimmer.

"Oh, she got drunk," Glimmer says slyly, chuckling.

No wonder the room smells so bad. I wrinkle my nose in disgust as I breathe in the heavy scent of alcohol and… blood? That's definitely blood. _Probably __from __my __leg,_I realize as I notice the cut on my thigh. The wound stings a little, but it's no big deal.

"I don't want the details," Enobaria replies grimly. "I'll get an Avox to clean the room, so don't worry about it."

"I wasn't worrying about it," I spit.

* * *

><p><strong>AN2: Please, please, _please_ review! I love you guys! c:**


	4. Chapter 4

All twenty-four tributes wait in silence. I jerk my head up and force myself to survey the circle of teenagers looping around the Cornucopia. Remembering each tribute's intrinsic appearance is simple – not one resembles another, including their district partner. But to retain their vulnerability or potential is another.

I begin to make mental notes of each tribute, starting with District 1. Glimmer is lean but tenacious, and it's just a fact that she won't go down without a fight. The boy from her district, Marvel, reminds me of Cato; perverse and arrogant. Then, after I've quickly considered each tribute all the way up to District 11, my gaze rests on an emaciated girl with long, braided black hair and gorgeous gray eyes.

The girl, who turns out to be from District 12, jerks her head towards a blonde-haired boy. She narrows her eyes, most likely in disorientation, as the boy shakes his head slightly. But this girl – I think her name is Katniss – seems hazardous, despite her gaunt figure; I decide to keep an eye on her, just in case.

The gong finally rings out, symbolizing the end of our quiescent sixty seconds. I dart towards the Cornucopia, clutching half a dozen knives in my hand. Instantly, I hear cries of agony as the bloodbath commences. Blood has already sprayed the cornucopia and turned the fresh green grass to scarlet.

I spot Katniss and a dark-haired boy in a tussle. Instantly, my hand jerks up to my shoulder, and I let a couple of knives fly through the air. Unfortunately, by the time I have completed the process, Katniss already has a bright orange backpack slung over her shoulders. She grins maliciously as my knife lodges into one of the straps, pausing only a moment to tug it out and grab it in her dainty hands.

Then I realize that the other knife has plummeted into the dark-haired boy's back. Now, he lies in the blood-stained grass, bleeding to death. This satisfies me, though I still desire to see Katniss in his place.

_I__'__m__coming__for__you,__District__12;__ready__or__not._This vexatious girl will wish she never volunteered, never even lived. I swear to myself that I will get revenge. Cold, merciless revenge. That will be her punishment for out-scoring me in training and for her elusive little grin that displays nothing but arrogance.

"Clove!" At the sound of my name, I automatically whip around, two knives in position by my shoulder.

Then I relax, realizing it's only Cato. My arms drop to my side, and my first reply is, "Who have you killed so far?"

Cato beams at me. "Three!" he announces contemptuously. "I don't even know who they are, but we'll find out tonight, I guess."

"You found Glimmer, Marvel, Kira, and Dagger yet?" I ask. Glimmer and Marvel are the two Careers from District 1; Kira is from District 3, and Dagger comes from District 4. We didn't take two of the kids because they were scrawny and untrained.

The grin is instantly wiped off of Cato's face. "Dagger is already dead. I think District 11 killed him, but I don't know for sure." He pouts. I remember him being fond of Dagger.

"Cato!" Glimmer shouts, sprinting over to us. Her face is flushed, causing me to think she just ran from the other side of the Cornucopia. "We… there's a boy. H-he wants to join the C-career pack." Glimmer is breathing heavily throughout her whole sentence.

"What District?" Cato asks, narrowing his dark blue eyes in suspicion. "We don't need to take in any weaklings."

In response, Glimmer guides us across the field to meet the boy. Right away, I recognize him as Katniss's district partner who also happens to be in love with her. Cato seems to realize this, too, because he's smirking at the District 12 boy.

"Well, it's Peeta, isn't it? Lover boy?" he snarls. Glimmer giggles.

Peeta nods, ignoring Cato's rude remark. "I can help you find Katniss. I know everything about her, so it will be easy."

Cato steps away from Peeta and leans against a sturdy oak tree, crossing his arms and smirking as Peeta stands awkwardly in front of him. "Well, Lover Boy, looks like you've made some friends, hmm? Tell you what. We'll let you in. But, if you make one wrong decision," growls Cato, "you're dead."

"I understand," says Peeta solemnly. "I… I won't let you down."

"Now," Glimmer singsongs, "come on, everyone. We need to find shelter and work out a strategy. Oh, and of course, we'll have to sort through our packs."

Marvel grunts from beside her. His curly black hair is spattered with blood. "Bossy," he mutters as Glimmer marches into the forest.

After nearly an hour of trekking silently through the woods, Glimmer halts and raises one hand. "We'll camp here," she decides, flashing a smile at the rest of us. "Everyone, drop your bags right here-" she points a finger at a mossy spot below a thorn bush- "and dump everything out."

I roll my eyes but resist the urge to argue with her. An argument will get us nowhere, and besides, this is exactly what I would have done if I was alone. I grab the bright orange backpack I snatched from the Cornucopia and dump its contents onto the moss.

From beside me, I hear Cato cursing softly as he shakes his bag. He kicks it roughly and yanks my knife from my hands.

"Listen, Cato," I say sternly, gripping his hand. "Don't be stupid. If you cut the bag, it won't close again, will it?" He shakes his head, glowering at me. "Put down the knife and try again."

I've learned that being calm is the only way to make him settle down. When we were younger, I was rough with him, and my rude comments would only fuel his temper.

Cato has always had trouble controlling his anger. At school, he would beat up weaker kids, shove them into the wall, steal their lunch, and threaten them all the while. Every day his mother would cut him or slap him. The next morning, while we walked to school, I cleaned off his cuts, and he would insist that he was perfectly fine, that his mother's abuse didn't affect him. But it did affect him, and both of us knew it. His mother and I were all he had left, since his drunken father was always gone.

Marvel and Glimmer have no trouble emptying their bags. Glimmer's contains dried fruit, two pieces of beef jerky, and a knife. When Marvel dumps everything out of his backpack, he curses and throws it at Glimmer's face. We all peer inside the moss, which is now topped with a dagger, three apple slices, and a bandana.

"Sorry, Marvel," I say with mock sincerity.

Cato and I both end up with night vision glasses and forest green bandanas. Marvel snatches Glimmer's dried fruit in trade for the apple slices. Peeta's bag doesn't have much, either. All he finds is a thin, scraggly blanket that looks as if it's been used over and over for years.

Just as Peeta has finished stuffing the blanket back into his bag, the District 3 boy shows up. His spiky, dark brown hair is matted and coated with mud – though it's hard to tell since it's practically the same color as his hair – and his entire face is flushed. Shaky scarlet scratches cover his cheeks, though the cuts are not deep enough to spill blood.

Cato observes the boy and stiffly heaves himself up. "You're late."

District 3 trembles slightly. "I was busy killing the District Six girl," he explains warily. "She cut me with her fingernails. I swear, they're so long they could be used as a knife!" After a pause, he continues, staring at Peeta in confusion. "What's he doing here? He's not a Career, is he? Oh, I get it! He's a prisoner, and we're torturing him."

Marvel shakes his head and smirks. "Shut up, District 3."

"Actually, my name is Sarisa," he mumbles. "Like the spear."

I'm surprised that Cato and Marvel actually let Sarisa into our group. He's scrawny, not Career material. But Cato says he's smart, that we can take advantage of his intelligence. Other than his smarts, Sarisa is really plain. Narrow feet, almond-shaped brown eyes, skinny shoulders, bony arms, highlights of dark and light brown hair spiked on his head, pointed nose like most kids from District 3.

"What's in the bag?" asks Cato. He takes a step forward and uses his palm to shove Sarisa away. The boy staggers backwards and Cato snatches the bag. After a moment of squinting inside, he flings it back at District 3 and plops back down. "Nothing good in there. Just keep it."

Glimmer disregards the whole conversation and continues to drivel about our plans. I zone out and conspire my own contrivance.

Aphotic trees loom above me, matching the almost devoid night sky. Only pearly, shimmering stars illuminate the sky, as the moon is nothing but a sliver, giving off the slightest amount of light. Crickets chirp in the distance, an owl rustles in branches high above. The gelid breeze tickles my face, sending shivers down my spine.

Algidity seeps through my bulky, forest green pants and hooded, black sweatshirt. I sigh and sink down, trembling beneath the battered blanket I'm sharing with Glimmer.

I wake up to a beautiful night sky and the lovely sound of Cato and Marvel arguing. Beside me, the moss is still warm from where Glimmer slept. She must have gone in search of other tributes, maybe even food.

"That's not fair!" whines Marvel, glowering at Cato. "If we eat now, chances are we'll run out."

Cato snorts. "We won't run out. Think about it, Marvel. We're Careers. With the seven of us, we'll keep our supply fully stocked every day."

"What if the animals are poisoned? What if they take away all the water? What if-"

Marvel's last _what__if_ is interrupted by a slap from Cato. "Shut up! I don't freaking care about all of your what if's!" he bellows.

Immediately, Marvel's head swivels around in all directions. "Keep it down. For all we know, another tribute could be tracking us down at this very moment."

"You're just paranoid," retorts Cato. No one in their right mind would ambush us. We're well-fed, perfectly trained, and completely prepared for any attack."

I crawl over to the disputing boys and tackle Marvel. Much to my amusement, he lets out a surprised squawk and tumbles backwards. Now, I have him pinned down, and his face is bright red with embarrassment.

"Don't do that again!" he scolds, trying to squirm away. But I'm stronger. "Clove, it's not funny. Let me go."

"If you promise to keep your mouth shut and give the rest of us some peace, I'll let go," I hiss.

"Fine," grumbles Marvel, pouting. "But I can't guarantee it won't happen again. Cato seems to think we'll never run short on food or water."

"That's because you're ridiculous!" I splutter. "You're the only one that's worrying, and it's really stressing me out. All night I had to listen to you, Cato, and Sarisa grumbling about this and that."

Peeta stirs and then sits up, rubbing his eyes. I release Marvel, who clambers backwards, still glaring at me.

"Anyway," I say, "where is Glimmer?"

"She went to find water," replies Cato as he picks bark off the tree behind him. "I told her not to go, that we don't need water yet, but she went anyway."

"Marvel had a point, though." I crane my neck to see Glimmer walking towards us, paying no attention to the snapping twigs beneath her. "Something could happen, Cato. Remember, the Gamemakers still have complete control over us."

For the first time, Glimmer actually sounds smart. Right as she entered the room during training, I whispered to Cato that "the new girl looks like a dunce." Obviously, it turned out to be true, because I'm always right. But despite her stupidity, she's easy to love. She's beautiful; as she trotted into the training room with her high heels and sparkly camisole, all eyes fell on her. And actually, she's really nice to me. She hates Sarisa and Marvel, but she visited my room a few nights ago and we totally trashed it. But she's also a killing machine, like me and Cato. On the night that we wrecked my room, she commented on how idiotic Sarisa is and said that she wants his murder to be reserved for her, so she can make it "slow and painful, the worst thing that's ever happened to him."

"You're finally back!" I exclaim, rising to my feet. "Now we can kill some tributes." I rub my hands together and sling my backpack over my shoulder. The weight has lightened since we all traded our items, but it's still a bit heavy. "Who are we after, and what tributes are left?"

"At least ten died in the bloodbath," says Peeta. "So that leaves about fourteen of us left. "Our biggest threat may be the District Eleven boy or Katniss. But if we're going after the weak ones first, Rue – I think that's her name – is quite pitiful."

Just as I open my mouth to respond, my head snaps to the left and my eyes widen. "Hush!" A short distance away is the glow of flames. Smoke billows into the air, filling the spaces between branches of tall, thin trees.

Immediately, Cato takes off, with Marvel right on his heels. Glimmer sighs and the two of us trip repeatedly over fallen branches and rocks as we try to keep up. Camellia, the District 4 girl who joined us around midnight, almost staggers into a tree.

"Spread out," hisses Cato in a whisper. We obey.

I slink forward, my grip tightening on my knife handle. A young girl, probably the age of thirteen, is huddled by a fire, rocking back and forth with her arms wrapped around her legs. An orange backpack sits beside her, halfway open. Completely unaware that the Career pack is sneaking up on her, ready to strike.

As I reach my spot beside a thorn bush, Cato gives the signal to attack. All at once, we charge forward. The girl is utterly shocked. She lets out a sharp, high-pitched wail as my knife sinks into her thigh. Another knife, Cato's, slits the girl's leg. Marvel's spear is lodged into her stomach. Behind us, Peeta, Sarisa, and Camellia stand stiffly with their fists raised to their shoulders, facing the opposite direction.

Warm blood sprays my face. I lick my lips before wiping them with my sleeve. Snickering, I squat down beside the girl's body and search through her pack.

"Twelve down and eleven to go!" Marvel whoops. Cato pumps his fists in the air while Glimmer and Camellia jump up and down, squawking in excitement. I keep searching through the backpack.

"Better clear out so they can get the body before it starts stinking," says Cato. Our victim whimpers quietly as we trek off, leaves crunching underfoot.

"Shouldn't we have heard a cannon by now?" asks Glimmer, her eyebrows furrowed doubtfully. Her sky blue gaze, specked with darker flecks of midnight, contain a note of worry. Always concerned.

"I'd say yes," replies Marvel. "Nothing to prevent them from going in immediately."

Camellia's defensive hands drop to her side. "Unless she isn't dead."

"She's dead. I stuck her myself!" Cato snaps, waving away the argument.

But Glimmer isn't satisfied. "Then where's the cannon?" she demands stubbornly, refusing to let Cato off the hook.

"Someone should go back. Make sure the job's done," Camellia says, resting her head on her spear.

"Yeah, we don't want to have to track her down twice," Sarisa puts in.

"Shut up," Cato mutters. Then, in a louder tone, he adds, "I said she's dead!"

"Cato, you shut up!" I flare. This time, I have to agree with Glimmer and Sarisa. Although I'm not too fond of the District 3 nerd, he's got a point, and I'm willing to back it up if it means we'll be safe.

"Don't argue with me!" snarls Cato. "Clove, you know better than anyone else that disagreeing with me is a bad idea."

It's true. He gets all fired up and somewhat abusive if you take it too far. But "too far" in Cato's dictionary is not synonymous to my definition, so we're stuck in a heated dispute almost every day.

"We're wasting time! I'll go finish her and let's move on!" Peeta snaps. I think I hear a slight rustling in the trees as he speaks, but when I glance up, all I see is the dark outline of branches.

"Go on then, Lover Boy," Cato mocks. "See for yourself."

"Why don't we just kill him now and get it over with?" asks Marvel after Peeta is out of earshot. He sighs irritably. Marvel has despised Peeta from the start.

"Let him tag along," I say carelessly, tossing my head and rubbing my finger across the blade of my knife. "What's the harm? And he's handy with that knife. Besides, he's our last chance of finding her."

"Why?" Cato challenges, taking a step towards me. "You think she bought into that sappy romance stuff?"

"She might have. Seemed pretty simpleminded to me," says Glimmer with a shrug. She shouldn't be talking; she's not the sharpest knife in my collection. "Every time I think about her spinning around in that dress, I want to puke." _How ironic, sweetheart._

"Wish we knew how she got that eleven," Marvel pipes up again.

"Bet you Lover Boy knows," Cato replies gruffly. "Is she dead?" he adds as Peeta returns.

"No. But she is now," Peeta says. The cannon booms in response.

* * *

><p>After an hour of tossing and turning, I finally fall asleep between Glimmer and Cato. I dream of me family and friends, and all the memories that go along with them flash in my mind, even while I'm asleep. Fenter's gleeful laugh, Brayen's flashy poses, my mother's sweet and gentle smile, Vayze's knives whizzing through the air and landing dead on target, Cato's smug grin as he pins me to the mat during training.<p>

Unexpectedly, I wake with a start. Gasping in terror, cold sweat, I scramble to my feet and see Glimmer shrieking inaudibly, pointing frantically at the tree above us. Only three or four feet away, Cato stands with his knees bent, ready for action. Marvel grips his spear with both hands, guarding his face. Sarisa and a half-asleep Camellia swat at an unknown object with their hands, with Sarisa screeching in terror.

Somehow, Camellia's straight, waist-long, light blonde hair remains perfect, even as she flips around, darts back and forth, and desperately swats the air.

Then it hits me. Glimmer frantically pointing into the branches, Sarisa and Camellia's shrieks, Marvel attempting to defend himself, everyone swatting… that means tracker jackers, the Capitol's muttations.

I stumble around before finding Cato and squeezing his shoulder until my knuckles are white. Sweat drips from his forehead as he dodges Marvel's aimless blows. He pulls away from me and darts forward to escape the chaos.

I stagger through the forest, running blindly. Ever few steps, I smack my face on a tree or trip over a thorn bush or stumble into Cato. I'm not sure, but I think I hear rapid footsteps behind me and Glimmer's desperate wails.

Since I have no idea where I am, I halt. Perfect timing, too, because Marvel is right on my heels and Cato is two feet in front of me. I collapse onto the ground and rub my hands over the grass while Marvel and Cato stomp around, cursing at nothing.

"Did you get stung?" I ask. Strangely, my voice sounds distorted and distant, almost like it's not me but someone else that spoke. "Pull out the stingers," I murmur before darkness slams over my vision.

When I wake up, Marvel is gone, and Cato sits beside me, still cursing under his breath as he pulls out the tracker jacker singers. Still feeling disoriented, I sit up. My vision wavers, and I can just make out the wide-spread field and the forest spinning around me.

I blink a few times, then wait for my vision to restore, and stare at my leg. Red splotches cover my legs, and my arms appear purple from bruises. I obviously can't see myself, but if I could, I bet I would see a wild-eyed girl with matted, chocolate-brown hair and a blood-spattered face, which is almost an exact image of Cato.

"Where are the others? Dead?" I ask, rubbing my eyes.

"No, not dead," replies Cato, his voice rough with a slight edge. "Lover Boy helped his girlfriend escape; she was the one that dropped the tracker jacker nest on us." He pauses. "Actually, Glimmer and Camellia are dead, but Marvel went to the river a few minutes ago. I have no idea where Sarisa is, but he's alive. I never heard his cannon."

Shock and grief hit me like a wave as I hear that Glimmer is dead. Over the past few days, she had become a friend to me, and I never got the chance to tell her goodbye or to thank her for… well, I'm not sure, but I know I wanted to thank her for something before my brain was jacked up by the Capitol.

Cato suddenly hops up, and I groan when I see him pointing an accusing finger at Marvel. "You were supposed to be on guard!" he bellows, raising a fist. "Not Glimmer!" I zone out, not wanting to hear the rest of Cato's fit. He does this every time he gets mad; he'll punch someone or something, hurt himself unintentionally, and curse at someone, usually me, for five minutes before storming off.

This time, he doesn't storm off, though. Instead, his face darkens and his hands drop limply to his side. He shrugs and walks back over to me like nothing happened.

I shoot him a quizzical look. But even I'm not stupid enough to say anything. Everyone, even, me knows that speaking a word to him about his childish tantrums.

For several minutes, I watch Cato stare off in the woods. His expression is impossible to read; I can tell he's concentrating very hard on something because of the way his lips are pursed and his eyebrows are furrowed.

Finally, Cato breaks the silence. "What's next?"

I gaze at him for a moment. Then my eyes flicker back to the trees. "We should find the others."

"Pull out these stingers," Cato unexpectedly commands, a harsh, solemn tone to his voice. He slips off his sweatshirt and t-shirt to reveal probably thirty red splotches all over his chest and around his spine. "And hurry, too."

_All __those __years __of __training __have __paid __off, __that__'__s __for __sure_, I think smugly to myself. I scoot over to him and get to work on cleaning off his wounds and pulling out the stingers. The entire time, Cato stares into the forest, looking dazed and worn out.

"Cato, you're so slow," I say, laughing.

He shoots be a bewildered look. "What do you mean?"

"You have so many stings. Must have taken you a long time to realize we were being attacked and a long time to get over here. Did you not run a lot back in District Two? Too lazy? Did you even train at all?" I tease. "After you turned ten, I mean." He opens his mouth to let out a sardonic reply, but I prevent him from doing so. "Actually, I know you've been training. I can tell." I wink.

At my last sentence, Cato perks up. "Oh, you know it. Can it be more obvious?" he says pretentiously, smirking widely. "Clove, you know the girls love me."

I have to laugh at this. It's true, though; the girls back in District 2 _do_ love him. "Of course, Cato. But don't you dare think you're better than me!" I grin furtively.

"Never, dear Clove." Standing up, Cato bows inelegantly.

"It's a good thing I'm done pulling out those stingers, because you could have gotten yourself a horrible scrape right then."

Cato snorts. "Whatever. Do you need yours pulled out?"

"Yes, but I don't have many," I say with an edge to my voice. Clearly, Cato doesn't understand what I meant, because he only scoots over to me and indolently tugs on the stingers. A few times, his knife rubs against my leg, leaving a shallow scratch, not deep enough for blood to escape.

When Cato is finally done, I relax in the grass. He slips his shirt back on and I pout tantalizingly.

"What?" he asks as he struggles to get his battered shoes back on. "Did you enjoy that or something?"

Smirking, I raise an eyebrow and break out into laughter. This is the way Cato and I have always been. During our daily training, we would mock each other and wrestle.

And then I realize something. When Cato turns his back to me and sharpens his sword with one of my knives, I stare at him, head tipped to the side in concentration, trying to figure out what it is that just clicked inside my brain. It has something to do with who I am, that's for sure. Who am I, though? Am I just another girl from District 2 that has been brought up by an affluent family? Another teenager that was taught to kill and show no mercy? Or is there something more?

Yes, there is something more. I am Clove Sharster, a vindictive sixteen-year-old girl with an abusive family and several malignant friends. All my life, I have suffered. Harrowing brawls have left me with scars and a shattered heart. I kill everything and everyone that interferes with what I want. I show no mercy. Seeing my rival splayed out right at my feet brings an overwhelming sensation of triumph.

And who is Cato? Cato Vercid is a feral, half-insane, presumptuous killer that will never love, never show compassion. He too has been taught to relish the pure bliss of watching his opponent writhe impotently on the ground. Cato has a comical side, too, even sexy, I'll admit. But there is something more to him, something more to me…

But I can't tell him. Love is weakness, it brings you down. Distracts you from your goal. And I can't let that happen, not here, not now.


	5. Chapter 5

"I'm cold," Marvel complains, rocking back and forth with his knees tucked to his chest. He's been complaining for the past thirty minutes about anything and everything, and it's driving me insane. Sometimes I think he just likes to hear the sound of his own voice, which, I'm sorry to say, is often extremely irritating.

"Shut up," I snap. With a sigh, I slide out of my sleeping bag. Instantly my body is flooded with frigid air, and a shiver runs up my spine. "Holy shit, it really IS cold. At least I won't be complaining." I launch the massive sleeping bag to Marvel, whose now-widened blue eyes are the size of saucers.

"Thanks, Clove. I really appreciate it." To my surprise, there is no sarcasm or rudeness in his tone. Only genuine gratitude, and a hint of bewilderment. That's a first. The gratitude, I mean; Marvel is always confused.

"You can share with me if you want," a smirking Cato tells me. His dirty-blonde hair is pale under the silver moonlight, and half of his face is obscured by shadows. But he still looks beautiful, even in this light.

Did I really just think that? I mentally slap myself.

I crawl over to Cato. "Fine. But only because I'm freezing," I mutter. When I slip inside, facing away from him, my skin prickles with chill, despite the warmth radiating from his body. Electricity jolts my body, replacing the shivers, and a look of confusion stretches across my ally's esoteric face.

"What's wrong?" he asks, genuinely concerned. "Are you sick? You feel really hot."

Actually, I do feel a little run down, now that he mentions it. But the observation only makes me feel worse, so I try not to brood over it. "I don't know. I feel-"

My sentence is interrupted by a loud bout of snoring from Marvel's direction. Cato snorts and murmurs, "What an idiot." Surprisingly, I giggle. Apparently, only Cato can elicit this rare sound from me.

And when Cato's arm wraps around my waist, my entire body freezes and I forget how cold it is out here and where we are and how sick I feel. All I can think about is how gentle his touch is and how soft and benign his voice sounds when he speaks.

"Look at me," he whispers. Before I turn over, I wipe the shock off my face. I'm surprised that it doesn't come back when I see his face.

Cato, for once in his life, wears a mild, almost amiable expression. All traces of hatred and humour and bloodlust are gone, replaced with something I have never seen on him, not once. He tilts my chin up and our gazes lock. The rest of the world disappears into a blur.

"Can I tell you a secret?" His warm breath tickles my ear. I nod, at a complete loss for words. Those soft blue eyes are fixed so intensely on me that the only thought I can complete is: Oh my god, we're here together, right here, right now, and he's so beautiful. He shifts slightly and continues speaking. "When I first met you, I could tell you were a fighter. My friend knew it, too. When he saw you in the meadow, he told me, 'Hey, Cato, look at that girl over there! Isn't she pretty?'"

Dazed, I only shake my head.

"And I said, 'Yeah, I guess so. I think I've seen her at the training center. She's the knife girl.'" His sentence trails off, and his eyes take on a distant look for just a moment. "Once you and I became friends, he kept going on and on about how wonderful you were. I just nodded along to whatever he said, not really caring. Then, when we got into the arena together, I thought about what he had said so many times. 'Damn, Cato, you're so lucky to have Clove as a friend.'"

I blink.

"I guess I know what he was really thinking now." He chuckles slightly, seeming a bit awkward. "You're wonderful, after all."

For a couple of minutes, there is a heavy silence that hangs in the cold air around us. Then Cato snatches it away by looking into my eyes and doing something radical, something I never thought he even thought about. And it catches me quite off guard.

He pulls me closer, arm still around my waist, and presses his lips oh-so gently to mine. It is immediately so overwhelming that I can't even put a single thought together anymore. Unspoken words and sentences jumble inside my head, and for the first time before tonight, I am, for what happens to be the second time today, tongue-tied and flustered. So many new emotions and thoughts are bouncing around in my mind that I don't even know _what _to think or say or feel right now. Except, I think I like this.

Cato's lips are warm and soft against mine, not controlling or cold or anything negative. And he's so gentle I can hardly believe it. This can't be happening. Cato can't be kissing me under the fake moonlight on national television; he doesn't love me, my family is watching, President Snow is watching, all of the Capitol is watching watching _watching_! Everyone can see us!

But honestly, I don't care. It's just too great, the feel of our bodies pressed together, the way one hand cups my cheek and the other rests on my side. I lose myself in his touch, his smell, his mouth. Warmth. Yes, there's warmth, spectacularly radiating from his tan, scarred skin. I'm hotter than I've ever been in my life. And the temperature is rapidly rising; I feel my face heating up, our entangled limbs catching fire, my throat constricting. I never thought it would be like this... Then again, I never bothered to ponder how I would behave or react if the situation ever arose. Which, it has, and I am left acutely disoriented.

"What the hell?" I jerk away slightly at the sound of Marvel's dumbstruck voice, and the coldness of the night enshrouds me like a thick blanket. Then, opening my eyes, I sigh against Cato's lips. "Did I just see what I think I saw?" asks Marvel dubiously, rubbing his eyes as if he can't seem to believe what he just witnessed (or maybe he's just tired).

Cato smirks smugly. "Yes, you did. Clove and I were in the middle of a heated makeout session, which you so rudely interrupted." Definitely heated, considering the fire I felt so violently encompass me.

Marvel, who is now sitting beside us, looks absolutely disgusted, as if he might puke at any moment. "I can't believe you two! Please don't tell me you were about to go further. Do I even want to know?"

My beautiful blonde ally chuckles and proudly announces, "We might have. And we should do it and make you watch." God, I really hope he's joking.

"I'm sure you would love the view," I can't help but add, grinning. "Besides, don't tell me you never thought about doing the same with Glimmer." Marvel flinches at the mention of his dead district partner's name. Huh. Looks like he actually cared for her, at least slightly; the rest of us despised her. She was far too ditzy and giggly for my taste.

"I know _I_ would," Cato mutters. I slap him.

* * *

><p>"What the fuck!" screeches Cato. Furiously he stomps over to Sarisa. Shock and fear are written all over the young boy's face; he knows he is about to die, and he knows it could possibly be extremely painful. "It's all your fault, District Three! Our supplies are gone because of you!"<p>

Everything is a blur as Cato grabs the District Three in a headlock and snaps his twiggy neck with only the smallest effort. For five minutes after the explosion, Cato had stomped around, kicking trash out of his path as he went. Then he threw a mutilated bag right in Marvel's face. Fortunately, Marvel, who had been peacefully searching the remains of our camp, had just enough sense not to retaliate, and only watched his half-friend's tantrum from the safety of the sidelines - if there's one thing we know about Cato, it's that he's all _bite_ and no _bark_; he never even gives a warning before he attacks. I only give them a small division of my attention; I'm too busy rummaging through the trash, praying that there is something, anything, left of our supplies. Without food and water, we're obviously screwed. Still, though, he is overreacting. He's just adding fuel to the fire, making us all a bit more truculent than usual.

However, I am not afraid of Cato, his temper, or his extremely truculent air (not like I am of Marvel's stupidity, which very much frightens me; who knows what he'll do next?). Of course, I know what he can do to me, and I am aware that it is not one bit pleasant; after all, just because we're close does not mean he hasn't attacked me before. But I do not fear him, since I know the worst he will do to me is slash my arm and draw a little unneeded blood.

"Cato, calm down," I growl, slapping his cheek as hard as I can. When I withdraw my hand, I notice with a chuckle that it is imprinted in red on his face. "You look great with my handprint on your face, by the way. Maybe I should start claiming you more often." I wink.

He doesn't even crack a smile (though I can tell he is trying hard to suppress one). Instead, his face is in an almost unbreakable mask of enigma, tinted with red-hot anger. When he opens his mouth to yell again, I place my hands on his shoulders and feel electricity burn through me. Shit, this is the worst place to fall in love!

But am I really _just now_ falling in love with him? Or have I loved him all along? I think back to when I first met him and recall the sparkle in his eyes when he saw me. Could he have sensed it too? I certainly did, though I didn't realize it until it was too late - way, way too late. Now that I think about it, I think that, somewhere in the very back of my mind, I had loved him since the beginning. When I was little, my mother would often tell me stories of her and my father's relationship before they got married. I learned that the moment she saw him, she felt like she already knew him, as if they had been friends for a long time. And that's how I felt when I saw Cato; that electricity in my veins, the one that set my blood on fire and ignited my bones. At first I thought it was just the adrenaline that comes hand in hand with battle and weapons, but now I know that's not the case. All along, I have been telling myself I didn't feel this way, that even if I did like him that way, he would never feel the same about me. I convinced myself that love was useless and would not help me win the Hunger Games. Ironically enough, it's done just the opposite. All these years, I've been lying to myself, hurting myself, cutting my soul with words that bring me down: stupid, ugly, useless, loveless, annoying, dumb, etc.

Now I am ready to admit that I am deeply, madly, hopelessly in love with Cato, the boy that was once my best friend, unbiological brother, training partner, helper, even my scratching post at some points. However, we somehow have become something much more than that: something that means much more to me, something I hold very, very close to my fragile heart (though I will never admit to anyone that I am, in fact, quite fragile). Over the days, weeks, months, years I've known him, I have fallen for him. I guess I'm his little fallen angel, the silver soul glowing radiantly in the darkness. I light up his world, he lights up mine. When I am depressed, he listens to my problems and lets me cry on his shoulder. When he is angry, I soothingly calm him down. He is a light in my darkness, I am the water to his flame and the fuel to his fire. We complement each other. Together, we are dark and powerful and perfect.

Yes. For once, I am perfect. And oh, how wonderful it feels.

So I take him in my arms and wildly kiss him, drinking in his smell. Although he is sweaty and burnt and wounded all over, he is beautiful, wonderful, the most amazing think I have felt or laid eyes on in my life. With his lips on mine, I am one again. The shattered pieces of my being are slowly being pieced together - they have been doing so ever since I spoke my first word to him.

I don't even acknowledge Marvel's shocked squeak, though some part of my mind is sure that he is grimacing as he watches the scene unfold before his eyes.

The booming sound of a seemingly nearby cannon pulls us out of our reverie.

"I wonder who that was?" Cato mutters, calm again. "Hopefully it was Everdeen or Lover Boy. It would be nice to get them out of the way."

"Yeah, sure," I say absent-mindedly. I'm too busy focusing on how soft I am turning to notice that Marvel has gone off on his own, and that soon, two more cannons have sounded in the distance.

* * *

><p>I am awoken by the sound of Claudius Templesmith's voice ringing out through the whole arena. Groggy with sleep, my ears just barely catch his accouncement, and even then I'm not sure I've heard him right: Two of us can win.<p>

"You hear that Clove?" A light tap on my shoulder causes me to leap up and defensively yank out my knife. However, I relax when I realize that the "attacker" is Cato. "We can both win. We're going home together." Once again, the world ceases to exist and it is only me and Cato, bodies pressed close, lips locked, golden sunlight glinting on our tussled hair.

Then, breathing heavily against his mouth, I speak three words that I have never, ever used in all my seventeen years, not even to my family: "I love you." That earns me another quick kiss. Unfortunately we have to start the day. I find myself wishing I could spend it all with Cato, but immediately I brush away the thought. Since when was I so... romantic?

To pass the time, Cato absently tosses his sword at trees, then goes to polish it, and I sharpen and throw my knives along with him. The blazing sun beats harshly on my back. I have come to the conclusion that they drop the temperature during the night and raise it when it's still light out. And I really do not appreciate it. Stupid Gamemakers.

"So," I say, trying to make the day a little less boring. "What, um... Tell me something about you that I don't know?" It comes out as a question rather than a statement. I sigh in exasperation.

Cato stops throwing his sword and glances back at me. "Um, well... I... I have a dog," he says uncertainly. "Or, well, my sister does. Her name is Marigold. Not that that really matters, but Clove, you know everything about me!"

"Not everything." Several minutes pass by as I try to come up with another question. Suddenly, I have a great idea. "Cato, when did you realize you loved me?"

His sword has just left his hand when I speak. The path is a little awkward; I guess I surprised him with my question. "I think I loved you all along. I just never knew it. But I started to question our relationship once you were reaped and I volunteered. Then, in the arena, I guess I just sort of figured it out." He shrugs, looking slightly vulnerable, which is something I've never had the chance to say about him. As a matter of fact, I probably won't ever have the chance to say it again. He usually hides his emotions so well. Maybe love has changed both of us; we're being pieced back together, and the real me is being uncovered bit by bit. The brutal, merciless killer with the hateful green eyes has softened into a teenage girl that never truly wanted to be here, but somehow enjoys it and falls in love along the way. It's like in those princess stories that my mother used to tell me as I fell asleep. As I got older, however, the stories got darker and haunting, until the point where I no longer wanted to hear them because they only worsened my nightmares.

"Yeah." My voice falters. "I guess so."

I continue to polish my knives.

* * *

><p>Poor Sarisa xD. I'm glad that I finally updated! I think I've got at least the next few chapters mapped out. However, it might be a while before I update. I'm having a hard time with school, so.~ Yeah, wish me luck. Oh, and thanks to <strong>ButterflyBlueEyes<strong> for the suggestion! I'll keep that in mind.

**carmencielle: **Yeah, I noticed that too :/ I don't even know how I ever pictured her as a blonde. But I was a bit, um, unaware when I wrote the other chapters. Speaking of those other chapters, I'm gonna be redoing them(: So I'll have that fixed soon.


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